


shot through the heart (and you're to blame)

by misura



Category: This Means War (2012)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're kidding me," FDR said. They'd gotten him a medical expert, to whom he'd listed Tuck's symptoms for about the tenth time. He'd taken Tuck's pulse, guessed at Tuck's body temperature, looked deeply into Tuck's eyes to check the state of his pupils.</p>
<p>The good doctor assured him she was not, in fact, kidding him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shot through the heart (and you're to blame)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladydey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydey/gifts).



> prompt: _FDR/Tuck, rescue_

By a conservative estimate, FDR would guess that they'd been shot at at least two dozen times. During, say, the last thirty minutes or so.

In some places, that would have sounded about average; in a small, sleepy village in the middle of nowhere, a solid hundred and fifty miles away from a G-4 classified location, it seemed just a little bit excessive.

"Next time, _you_ drive, and _I_ keep the map," Tuck said.

"Oh, come on," FDR said, because their current situation? So not his fault. "Anyone could have - "

" - switched around west and east?" Tuck shook his head. "Sorry, mate. Really don't think so."

"Well, if you hadn't crashed the car." Tuck _had_ crashed the car, of course.

"I saved both our lives crashing the car," Tuck said, reloading his gun. "You got a spare mag?" Correction: not reloading his gun.

"You would have made a terrible Boy Scout." FDR forked over the spare spare mag he'd packed.

Tuck grinned at him. "Takes one to know one, don't it?"

"I was a great Boy Scout," FDR said, stung. "Where'd you think I learned all my knots? Grandmaster of rope knotting, that's me."

"Somehow, coming from you, that sounds incredibly dirty," Tuck said.

"Hey," FDR said. "A kink is a kink is a kink. No judging. You want to take a walk on the ropey side of life, I can introduce you to a friend of mine. A _female_ friend of mine," he added, in case that hadn't been clear.

"Aren't they all?" Tuck asked.

"You're not," FDR said. "Aren't you done reloading yet?"

 

Things went pretty smoothly after that - or so FDR felt. He and Tuck were a great team, of course; the Fantastic Two of the CIA, so to speak.

If maybe Tuck sometimes forgot to pack an extra mag, FDR packed two of them, plus a spare. (He wasn't sure if there actually was such a thing as an extra spare extra mag, but if there was, he was packing them. For Tuck.)

And if maybe FDR had been sleeping through their mission briefing, which had included detailed instructions on how to read the map, Tuck didn't pester him about it. Much.

"I think I've been hit," Tuck said.

He _sounded_ like he'd been hit - breathing hard, and clearly not because he was having a good time here.

On the plus side, FDR didn't see any blood. "Where?"

"Leg," Tuck said, which was bad. It didn't take a serious leg injury to slow a man down to a point where his chances of survival in a fire fight started dropping dramatically.

"Bullet still in there?" FDR couldn't say he looked forward to playing doctor in the middle of a hot zone. (Or, well, he did, but not _this_ kind of playing doctor. The kind that was sort of serious.)

Tuck shook his head. "Not a bullet."

"Shit. Let me see." FDR felt around cautiously. His fingers remained dry, which was good - if the wound had stopped bleeding already, Tuck was probably going to make it out of here just fine.

Then he felt the needle. Pulled it out quickly.

"Tranq dart?" Tuck squinted at it.

"Don't know." It usually wasn't a good sign when the other guys wanted to take you alive. Not that FDR didn't think he'd be able to handle a bit of torture, but, well, there was Tuck. Also, he rather enjoyed his good looks. "Are you feeling sleepy?"

"No," Tuck said, frowning. "Not sleepy. Sooner the opposite. In fact, I - "

"Headache? Stomachache? Numbness in your extremities?" Behind door number two there was, of course, poison. That usually came with an antidote, though. And an offer to trade something - probably information - for said antidote. FDR could definitely work with poison.

"Horny," Tuck said. With the way his face was quite flushed already, it was hard to tell if he was actually blushing as he said it.

"Wow," FDR said. "You think we ended up in a place where there's no men and the women are all desperate to get someone to have sex with to save their race from certain extinction?"

"Does this look like Star Trek to you?" Tuck asked.

"Hey," FDR said. "Just trying to keep an open mind here."

 

The bad news was: they didn't find any antidote.

"These people are total amateurs," FDR said, kicking at a chair. "Amateurs!"

"I heard you the first time," Tuck said, from where he was sitting propped up against the wall. "Thanks for making me feel better about all this. If anyone was going to take me out, I'd always hoped it would be a group of bumbling amateurs."

"Oh, shut up."

The good news was: they did find a working radio.

"You're kidding me," FDR said. They'd gotten him a medical expert, to whom he'd listed Tuck's symptoms for about the tenth time. He'd taken Tuck's pulse, guessed at Tuck's body temperature, looked deeply into Tuck's eyes to check the state of his pupils.

The good doctor assured him she was not, in fact, kidding him.

"You're not serious about this," FDR said, looking at Tuck, whose expression was inquisitive. "Yeah, okay, you're serious. Fine. I'll take care of it. Shit."

"Not a happy diagnosis, I take it?" Tuck asked.

"Hey, you're going to be just fine," FDR said, adding a thumbs up sign for emphasis. "Just fine."

Tuck looked less than convinced. "That doesn't sound so bad."

"Well, there's an 'if'," FDR admitted. "You're going to be just fine _if_."

"If what?" Tuck inquired. FDR grimaced. "What? Something disgusting? Distasteful? Are you going to need to chop off my leg? That's a joke, by the way. It's not that you need to take my leg off, is it?"

"No," FDR said.

"Well, then what?" Tuck sighed. "Spit it out."

"Ah," FDR said. "Well. That is to say."

"Yes?"

"We need to have sex," FDR said. "To ... dillute the poison. Or something."

"Or something," Tuck repeated. "You're kidding me, right?"

"That's what _I_ said."

"Yes," Tuck said. "Obviously. I mean, it's a bit odd, isn't it? Not that I'm not willing, of course - if you are, I mean. I mean, best friends and all. What's a bit of life saving sex between best friends?"

"You said 'I mean' three times there," FDR said.

"Well, excuse me for my unoriginal vocabulary."

"You're excused. You know, near death and all. Anyone'd be getting a bit less coherent under those kinds of circumstances."

"Right," Tuck said. "Precisely."

"So," FDR said. "Sex?"

"Here's as good a place as any, I imagine," Tuck said. "No chance of any clean, soft beds, is there?"

"We get back to LA, I'll take you on a real date," FDR said. "Satin sheets, rose petals on the pillow, the whole she-bang."

Tuck closed his eyes, briefly. FDR wasn't sure if it was general discomfort or if Tuck had some sort of secret dislike for either rose petals or satin. He made a mental note to find out later.

"So how long until the chopper gets here?"

"Thirty minutes," FDR said.

"Best get on with it then, hadn't we?"

 

"So tell me," Tuck said, about twenty-eight minutes later. " _Were_ you kidding?"

"Well," FDR said, stretching, "she did say I should loosen your clothes."

"Remember what you said about going on a proper date when we're back in LA?"

"Yeah?"

"You're going to be buying me dinner first, too."


End file.
